


-Home- A Penny Dreadful story

by clarice82art



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV), Penny Dreadful (TV) RPF
Genre: Angels, Archangels, F/M, Fun, Hate, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Original Character(s), Rare Pairings, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:55:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarice82art/pseuds/clarice82art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(At the end of the season 2) John Clare finds something beyond his desolate shore, a woman named Ophelia who takes him under her wing. But can they deal with their own demons, those both within and without?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Winter's spring

**Author's Note:**

> This is the wonderful and so sweet written AU Fanfic 'Home' - of the actual AU FF - called - Wonders ~ God's work & devil's contribution I used to write together with Revie6661 - by the so lovely deafield (http://deafield.deviantart.com/art/Home-A-Penny-Dreadful-story-608174249)
> 
> She came up with the idea of writing her own sweet love story of the ship I invented and we both start to love so much - Liohn - OpheliaxJohn (OCxCanon)  
> So she did one of the most sweetest things ever and started to write this AU version of her own based on original facts, ideas and plot lines of mine (my OCs and such) :D
> 
> And because we want to share this story to the world I got her permission to post it here under my name/in my account as well :) 
> 
> But you can also find her here:  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11960704/1/Home
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~  
> John Clare/Caliban/The Creature (C) PennyDreadful  
> Ophelia Broderick ,Aron Winters & Mr. Jenkins (C) Me  
> Story (C) deafield  
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
> There is also some fanart I made to JohnxOphelia. So if you are interested in that as well, just click here::  
> http://redpassion.deviantart.com/gallery/56664286/Penny-Dreadful

Ophelia had always liked winter. She could layer up all she desired to cover up her particular ‘condition’. And she always imagined using the cold as an excuse to pull herself into the arms of a dear companion. And her thoughts as of late turned to her friend, Mr. Clare, who skin might have been as cold as winter snow but his heart felt like a warm fireplace which she couldn’t help but move towards its flickering light.

Today was a glorious day for her plans, serene new fallen snow layering over the usual gray, bitter streets. It seemed the final touch to the tizzy of cleaning her and her brother Aron, had been doing the last week in preparation for her friend’s visit. It was still early morning, when she got out of bed to meet her friend knowing his preference for moving about the city in darkness which she more than understood. Looking outside her window she saw hardly a soul and felt glad. She dressed in her warmest wool dress and cloak knowing the chill as soon as she left the small flat and its smell of burnt maple logs in their small fireplace.

She was glad she liked the mornings, though Aron once he awoke was like a burning sunlight streaming through curtains that couldn’t be shut out. He was already stirring as she left to gather her friend from the dank refuge he now stayed in. The closer she moved to her friends location, the less affected by the cold she felt much to her own surprise, and a giddiness started welling within her.

Mr. Clare she could see as she walked closer to the entrance, standing with a book in hand and as always seemingly ignorant of the weather. His bag was heavy on his shoulder, the weight of it making a dent in his coat, though Ophelia doubted he noticed it. As she got closer she couldn’t help but notice his tallness and strong limbs noticeable even with all the layers. But she noticed the most right now that he was lost in the words and didn’t see her approach and she had a mighty, terrible thought.Inching closer, slightly behind him she slowly reached her arms forward fingers extended and took a breath before rushing forward her fingers pushing into his side as she said,

“Morning!” To her surprise, the man’s reaction was not as she expected. As he stiffly recoiled, his head whipping in her direction with pained yet predatory eyes. His hair dragged forward over his face, his eyes met hers and in a flash his expression changed to grief and finally transforming into pleasant surprise. And somehow in all this he managed to not drop his book, swiftly closing it and placing it in his already stuffed bag.  
“Good morning Miss Broderick,” he replied in recovery, his breaths short and one hand clenched over the strap of his bag. Ophelia found herself taking John’s free hand in hers and putting a hand to his cheek.

“I am sorry if I hurt you.” He forced a smile it seemed, his hand grasping back at hers.

“You could do no such thing,” She felt herself force a smile as well, berating herself for her stupidity, but also feeling curiosity about his reaction. Yet the woman couldn’t find it within herself to invade his privacy. He would tell her such things in his own time. So instead she found a more appropriate question.

“ You have everything you wish to bring?” The woman moved her hand from her friend’s cheek to grasp his arm and lightly tug them back towards the street and he started moving with her. He nodded in response and dropped back into his thoughts.Ophelia thought she might try to cheer him up. It was the least she could do.

“Onto tea then! Our grand morning adventure awaits,” she started as they made their way down the edge of the street which was rapidly piling with snow. She could feel it crushing into the crook of her heeled boots which meant it would be perfect later for building snowmen if there was such a place to do it. There were few people to pass as they walked the darkened streets, sunlight creeping through the cracks of other buildings up ahead. It took a few moments but her friend’s breathing returned to a comforting pace, and she found herself watching the plumes of heated air against the cold air emitting from his lips. He looked forward letting her arm lead him and asked in a low voice,

“Are you sure this is well? I dare not be a burden to you or your kin,” he readjusted his heavy bag, filled with things he would be leaving at their flat, mainly books of course. Ophelia used her free hand to swat at his arm.

“How many times have I told you to not say such things? It is an honor, you trusting us with such precious things. Better yet, I get to read all your books.” She looked up to see a twitch of a smile lite upon his features. Feeling a bit of pride in such a happy accomplishment, she let her stride lengthen to match even that of her tall friend though she felt just as silly to be happy of such things. She couldn’t help herself though, and she had indeed tried in the past. For a bit the two fell into a contented quiet, enjoying one another’s company until Ophelia heard John mumbling something,

“Like white dove’s brooding wing, a landscape to the aching sight, a vast expanse of dazzling light…” Amused to hear her friend quoting the poet he was seemingly named after she struggled to remember the next line.

“In-It is the foliage of the trees…woods,” and John turned his head with a grin, amused by her lackluster attempts as she struggled to continue on,“That winters bring-the dress, white Easter of the year in bud, that makes the winter’s spring.” Ophelia felt her brow furrow. There were two more lines, but blast her memory. She gave it one more go,“ The frost…and snow his- oh what are the flowers?”

“Posies,” the man quickly picked up, “ The frost and snow his posies bring,” The woman felt the last line shine upon her as clear as the sunlight that started to drip through to them,

“ Nature’s white spurts of the spring!” she blurted out triumphantly,loudly enough to turn a few heads. She quickly covered her mouth and heard her friend laughing under his breath though desperately trying to hold it back whilst pulling his arm from her grasp and pulling it around her shoulders. Her cheeks must have been a deep pink and as if to compound everything she felt her foot slide. The snow must have finished caking over what little traction she had on her shoes and her ankles gave way. Her body was tipping rapidly as she watched John react with the speed of lightning, his hand moving from her shoulders to her arm whilst his free hand flew to her side and pulled her upright and straight into him.

And it felt right. Like she was a snowflake landing on his coat and melting there, in shock of her own clumsiness.

“My dear Mr. Clare, it seems morning has conquered me. I am a poor adventurer indeed,” She recovered herself and knocked the offending snow from her shoes before looking down the street, the next intersection being the turn to her flat.

“Up in the morning’s no for me; up in the morning early, when a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw. I’m sure its winter fairly,” he responded after a moment, his tone quiet but almost sing-song like. She would have swatted at his arm again if she hadn’t already been clutching it in case the white powder decided to play any more tricks.

“Never thought I’d hear Burns used to tease,” she stated with a mock pout and then looked to see John’s face fall and turn to apology, hanging his head low as if to beg for forgiveness. She smiled at him reassuringly.

“It is true though, Mr. Burns and I don’t seem to fare well on certain winter mornings.”

“I am sure the afternoons are all the better for it then,” he responded sounding a bit better.

“Tis true. Better yet, we are almost there and my brother’s breakfast always makes the mornings better.”

\---===---

They stopped along the street at a little bookshop with a faded concrete façade reaching up to the sky above it for five more floors, Grecian dentil molding adorned the lines between floors and little jutting cornices above the windows. It was once much cleaner, but now the stone was a deep gray and cracking, and pieces of the detailing had fallen off, leaving teary lines dripping down the stone. But yes, once it was surely a fine building.

John found himself being pulled towards the shop door by the smell of books, but Ophelia thankfully led him away from temptation and to a thin doorway at the edge of the shop leading to a steep stairwell. They started climbing and unlike the home of his creator was empty of children on the stairs or laundry crossing the halls. It almost seemed eerily empty except for the sounds of the occupants coming through the thin walls.

They moved up and up the thin stairwell till they reached the fifth floor and the man noticed his companion seemed a bit out of breath. Truly she could not have lived here long to be in such a state, and his face must have looked questioning because she was peering over at him from the railing she had leaned on.

“The rent gets cheaper the higher you go, and it’s quieter up here. The owner also gave us a discount for helping run the shop downstairs sometimes when he is out.” And with that she was up again and went over to one of the doors, knocking on it.

“Just a moment, darling,” a cheery male voice called from inside, causing John to turn his head in minor confusion and then the woman to laugh at his expression.

“He always gets like that when he’s cooking. Be warned, he might have been referring to you,” Ophelia stated while the man nodded, a bit unsure of what to make of such a statement. The sound of locks sliding out of place started and John felt himself straighten, readjusting his bag on his shoulder as nervousness starting creeping back in.

What if this brother decided Ophelia shouldn’t be with him? What could be said to convince the man otherwise with how he looked? He couldn’t imagine having to separate from Lia, as he allowed himself to call her in the safety of his own head. His rage assured him quickly if anyone should try to take her away, they could be swiftly dealt with.

Such thoughts were brushed aside as the tarnished wood door opened to a bright, blond, young man. Strapping might have been the best initial word to describe him based on his physical body but kind as well considering his overbearingly friendly smile.

“Welcome to our humble abode John, if I may call you that,” he said quickly as he ushered the two inside and closed the door behind them.

“ I have heard enough about you I think for it to be well, seeing as Lia talks about her dearest poet friend all the time,” The blond haired man said as he scurried across the room, while Lia threw off her shoes and cloak quickly making chase and leaving their bewildered guest at the door. The woman, seeming to have forgotten the hike up the stairs, grabbed a wooden spoon off a small counter in a small kitchen area and hit her brother over the head with it as he tried to get away.

“I was using that,” he pouted at her, a hand going up to his head in defense, while Lia hit him again over the shoulder.

“And now I’m using it. You promised you wouldn’t!” Somehow the man managed to get around her from the small living area and back around to John, his smile apologetic.

“ Name’s Aron. Aron Winters. Pleased to meet the man who makes my sister this excitable in the morning. She’s usually such a mouse reading and such, trying so hard to memorize poems these days instead of just enjoying them,” as he finished Lia caught up with him, and hit him again on the back wielding the spoon formidably with an angry, flushed face.

“ You twit,” she declared poised to strike again as Aron ducked down, leaving her face to face with her friend. Suddenly her expression became mortified drooping her arms in defeat. It seems Aron had won, no matter how times she hit him. With a huff, she quickly thrust the implement back into her brother’s hand and pushed him towards the little stove.

“Weren’t you cooking?” But Aron just grinned back over at John,

“Indeed I was, but you left our guest at the door.” The woman scrambled back over, nearly tripping again and straightened her dress quickly before saying,

“May I take your coat and bag, Mr. Clare?” Her voice still maintained a hint of mischief to it which he didn’t think he had ever seen quite so clearly before, but he did as asked taking off his bag and putting it on the ground, and then coat handing it to Lia. The woman, her face still flushed,hung the coat then picked up the bag with a bit of effort and carried it over next to a small couch while John took off his shoes. He took a few steps into the flat with only socks, this place perhaps having been the first place he had done so. He felt in a way, like he had arrived home.

The woman had come back over and hung his coat, as well as arranging the shoes by the door determinedly as Aron cleaned off the offending weapon and went back to stirring a small pot and cutting a loaf of bread. While they worked John looked over to see a small worn table set before two windows with haphazardly different chairs, all proudly unique in their designs and mismatching cups of steaming tea set on the table.  
The man admitted to feeling a bit dumbfounded to what had just occurred. If anything, Lia’s embarrassment had seemed to lesson enough to take his hand and lead him to the small table where she motioned for him to sit as she herself flopped into a chair.

Never before had he seen such an exchange, certainly never seen siblings interact in such a way, his mind going to his own unfortunate experiences with “siblings”. If anything he supposed he should be grateful to Mr. Winters noble sacrifice of information about his sister, which indeed warmed John’s heart. And it seemed his little angel could bear the horns as well as her wings if it suited her. And john did admit feeling twinges of jealousy at their closeness, but pushed such feelings away as best as he could for Aron had not flinched looking upon him or had yet bore him any ill will. It seemed a possible union with Lia had been blessed indeed.

Though he also did wonder which parent Aron and Lia shared, considering how vastly different they looked. Perhaps he was the son of some mistress, and a poor one based on his clothes compared to that of his sister. Not that it mattered in the end. They seemed happy and Aron certainly was caring and a good cook based on the smell coming from the small cooking area.

His thoughts finally settled a bit, the man carefully picked up the cup of tea set before him and took a sip. He felt his body relax against the warmth as Aron soon came over brandishing two plates covered with wrapped paper which he then removed after he placed them down showing bits of bacon, eggs, and toast. Then as he left again, John found himself admiring the kind offering before him. He looked over to Ophelia who had once again taken the angel’s visage and was content with the sun bathing her silhouette.

Did he once again dream, so soon after having given up on dreams? Or perhaps he had lived in one long nightmare and now finally awoke to life, a woman who he scarcely admit he may love and her family who accepted him. He dared to imagine himself as human, drinking tea and about to eat breakfast with those unlike him. He almost felt he had betrayed his desolate shore or even his dear friend Vanessa. A happy betrayal at the least.

Aron returned with his own plate and the loaf of bread now neatly cut, crowding the small table and seeming grateful to sit at last. He took a sip from his cup, smiling over at Lia, perhaps even smirking at his earlier victory. Then they took hands and John felt the two each motioning to take one of his hands which he did with a moment of confusion. Lia spoke,

“Bless us, ‘O lord, and these are your gifts, which we are about to receive from your bounty. Through Christ our lord, Amen,” and Aron quickly echoed her with a calm satisfaction while John felt his silence resound throughout the small room.

For a moment, he felt compelled to say the word of his religious friends, but wasn’t sure if it would be a mere courtesy or a betrayal of his own beliefs. He felt himself curl forward, head bowed as he tried to retract his hands but Lia kept a firm grip on his hand and within a second Aron did the same.

“You don’t have to say it,” she said, understanding his dilemma immediately, even taking her now free hand and lifting his chin, encouraging him to straighten from his moment of question. They released his hands finally as Aron laughed a bit,

“Most of our friends don’t understand it either, a catholic tradition this country for the most part thinks odd. No worries friend.” And with that, John let out his held sigh as the siblings started to eat, both looking very amused if anything. Perhaps this was indeed a common thing for them, being odd in their own ways as well as him. With that bit of comforting though, he started to eat savoring the taste of the fine morning.

After a few blissful moments of quiet with the first bites, Aron piped up again,

“So then John, what brought you to this black heart of a city?” The man felt himself choke on a bit of egg at the sudden question, but quickly swallowed and replied,

“Family.” He tried not to think about the anger that likely crept into his voice but thankfully the blond-haired man seemed unaffected.

“Same. I came with Lia to this god-forsaken place when she decided to bring some of the almighty back to the needy. And like a dog on the leash of fate, I followed her.” The woman had stopped eating, somewhat amused by her brother’s words. Aron leaned in towards John,

“But yet, see how the lady abuses me, hitting me when I was so well behaved today as if I were her puppy who had peed on the carpet.” The dark haired man now had to stop eating as well looking up to see his angel’s eyes narrow at her brother, but taking a heavy breath and picking her fork back up trying hard to not play Aron’s game.

“Let us hope she treats all her pets better in the future then,” he said quickly, giving a go at the banter and trying not to think about the small woman trying to chase him around the flat with some other kitchen implement.

“If you’re referring to yerself mate, I don’t think the little lady could pull you to heel if she tried.” Both looked back at Lia whose blush was somehow even fiercer now, and felt himself put a hand to his forehead, glad he could hardly blush himself. Aron laughed in victory and then put his hand on john’s shoulder, winking at him,

“That’s what I’m for.” The woman slammed her fork onto the table with exasperation now it seemed,

“Dear lord above, Aron let the man eat,” and with that the hand retreated, the blond haired man putting his hands up in defense while making a face at his sister as she crossed her arms. John swore Aron would have whined like a puppy if she didn’t look legitimately annoyed.

“You’ll have to excuse my brother. He makes such wonderful things, but then is determined that guests shouldn’t enjoy them,” to which the accused made a silent but grand gesture of being shot by an arrow, getting a smile from her and John as well. The woman then retreated to a look reminiscent of a mother scolding her child and Aron playing his part, pouting before starting to quietly eat again.

So many new sides of Miss Ophelia he had seen today, just within the short time of visiting her home compared to the refuge and temporary home in which he lived. Before today most of their conversations had been philosophical if anything, but now she played both the parent and child, angel and devil, and he found such rapt fascination with it all.

The three somehow finished eating in quiet, besides the sounds of the fireplace crackling and the white winter sun beaming through the windows. This time is was Ophelia who spoke,

“Would it be impolite to ask if you needed employment?” John flicked his head up, the poignant image of the Putney’s’ lying dead next to the cage they had tried to keep him in and the sound of Lavinia’s screams as he left her with the bodies.

“Not at all, “he said gruffly, trying to push the memories from his head. He watched the woman’s face twist into concern but she continued,

“As I may have mentioned, but the owner of the flat owns the book shop below. His name is Mr. Jenkins,” Aron butted in,

“But yet he keeps asking that you call him Ernest. He would be insulted to hear you call him something so formal.” Lia went on, somewhat ignoring him,

“As I was about to say, he prefers to be called Ernest once you are at ease with him. I sometimes help out in the shop, but there is only so much I can do. And Aron is busy at the ports most of the time. My point is, if you needed the work, I could introduce you. I think you simply being yourself would be more than enough to convince him,” And though she looked like she would ramble on a bit more, looking down at her hands nervously her brother interrupted nicely this time,

“Old Jenkins doesn’t let anyone work the shop who isn’t at least a bibliophile. I don’t think he’d let me touch his books without reading the “classics” in his opinion. It would take months and honestly is a bore,” the man said with an over-exaggerated sigh. With the proposition John felt both excited and nervous at the prospect. But nervous was perhaps not the correct word….more like terrified. Just thinking about Oscar Putney’s face satisfactorily grinning at him through bars after he had worked with the man for so long made him cringe. How could he have been so blind? Even Lavinia, Lily all sat scheming, luring him to their own ends. Part of him still wondered, and perhaps always would, if Lia would do the same. He felt his fists clenching in pain and then dared to look up to see his angel’s hand move over his.

“Don’t think about it, if it pains you. We can talk of such things later,” her gentle voice eased his heart and gave him hope but still it beat in fear, his head hanging low. Aron got up and gathered the now empty plates,

“No need to be ashamed of it,” he called as he walked to a small wash basin and dumped the plates in,

“We’ve all done work that wasn’t so friendly to us, if that’s what happened. I’ve wanted to wring a few necks of pompous employers a few times I will admit,” John heard himself scoff. If only they knew the foulness of his past deeds. Ophelia broke into his thoughts before he went any further,

“Our point is, the offer stands whenever you wish to explore it.” Her hand had not left his, now unclenched her fingers had lightly entwined with his.

“And if anything, we could always use an extra strong pair of hands for certain things at nights on the docks: quick jobs with good pay if you know what I mean, “Aron said as he started washing the dishes. John laced his fingers more tightly against the woman’s smaller, delicate ones but turned to look at the blond-haired man.

“I am more grateful than words can express. I have some money saved for now, but I might be willing to take up any of the said offers I needed. I am…contented for now.” He turned back, looking once more at his friend’s hand, his ashen paleness compared to her lively peach tone. She had never made any adverse comments on the coldness of his skin or the scars on his face. Yet again, she had her own “condition” as she called it, and had described the bleached patch of skin over the bridge of her nose as naught but a small portion of what covered most of her body. When initially given such a description he felt a sameness to his own scar littered body, but sometimes his mind would betray him and he wondered what these hidden marks of hers looked like.

He tried once more to shake off the thought like a horse shaking off flies, bound to return to buzz at its ear. He listened to Aron washing the dishes and to the winter wind creaking against the windows threatening to breech the well-warmed room.

“Then, at least let us extend the offer to stay here, should you decide to take up either opportunity. Aron has been leaving often as it is to his newest friend’s house,” the woman offering, her hand steadily holding his, though he shook at such an offer of kindness as casually masked at it was. The other man seemed to not notice his state as he responded to what seemed an accusation,

“Only ‘cause he had lost his lady love. The man’s place is a mess, and he needs someone to take care of him whether or not he admits it.” Lia laughed at her brother’s concerned tone.

“I’m sure he will forget about her soon enough if you have your way.”

“One can hope,” Aron responded reflectively as he now started the drying process.

“You going back today?” the woman asked.

“I plan to, but not before I hear the poem you’ve been composing under your breath for the last few days.” John whipped his head around to see a most mischievous grin on Aron’s face as Lia’s hand gripped tightly onto his. But when he turned back, instead of seeing a glare as expected she was smiling nervously looking down, her free hand gripping lightly at a napkin on the table.

“Thought I’d let you get away with that one little dove, eh?” and he laughed merrily being done with his work and moving to the couch. He looked over at the two and patted the seat beside him.

“Let’s make it a proper performance, John and let her stand before us.” The dark haired man looked over to Lia who took a deep breath and suddenly stood, pulling him up with her.

“If it will get some peace before you leave, let it be done then,” she said John following her as she led him to the couch and sat him down next to her ever-grinning brother and stood before the fireplace, it’s light warming her figure. Her eyes met with his and didn’t leave as she started.

“I am a hatchling crawled from my shell looking forever hungrily at the sky,  
wanting to lift my words from a page scattering its threads as I rise and seek my home,  
I search high and low, through the filtering light of works past  
and deep into the depths of my own soul to find a branch,  
its bark made of bits of phrases here and there to protect against others discontent.

I find pieces of this and that, shiny trinkets, tidbits of old memories for my nest,  
a small refuge of my own imagination,  
though supplies may sometimes be scarce without a parentage of proper punctuation or grammar somehow I pull through,  
plucking my own wings to make my pillow.

I build an egg of the thoughts I find, the shiny relics and forgotten souls,  
all our pain and elation making the shell and heartbeat of a poem,  
I may always wish to keep it safe,  
Unhatched within my nest  
But like me, it too must be free to look towards the sky.”

John realized he must have been grinning like a fool because Lia was too by the end, as Aron started clapping loudly.

“Brava, Brava miss Ophelia. You barely bored me. Such a rarity for such works.” The woman pretended to look offended as the dark haired man looked over at Aron incredulously,

“ I know you mean, I brought you to the edges of eternity and back,eh?” she snapped back before motioning for the two to move over so she could sit down. But it seemed the poor couch hadn’t been designed for three people and when Lia sat beside him he could feel the whole of her body leaning against his not that she seemed heartily aware of it. She turned to him saying,

“Aron thinks poetry is unmanly to openly enjoyor some such nonsense his friends in the bars say. But he secretly likes it, and I bet my ability to burn tea he knows more than I do,”

“Only ‘cause you can’t manage to remember them once you’ve read them. But I suppose I peek at books of poetry every once and a while only when boredom overtakes me,” Aron spoke in his defense before standing up, “ Maybe one day I’ll regale you with my favorite form of poetry, sailor songs, when I’ve had enough drink that is.” The woman snickered,

“Thank heavens he can actually sing well. One night he wouldn’t shut up till the cock crowed,” she said laughing as Aron coughed and slid away towards the door after grabbing a bag from behind the couch.

“I will have to hear it then, one day,” John found himself saying, the promise of such adventures with a friend seeming its own impossible dream. The blond haired man started to put on his coat and looked back to the two looking somehow more cheerful than ever,

“As I promised I’m off. There’s stew in the pot and a note on the counter on how long to warm it up,” he said turning his attention more towards his sister, “That means not destroying my hard work this time,” to which the woman stuck her tongue out at him.

“Well go on then, if you plan to actually go. I’ll faint if you embarrass me anymore.” But Aron scoffed putting a pair of well-worn boots,

“You’ve never fainted before from it. I will demand an award if I can achieve such a thing, and lord knows I’ve tried,” and he grabbed a scarf before throwing his bag over his shoulder, “If Mr. Clare stays, dear sister I want my bed to take no part in it,” before quickly opening the door and practically running out. John looked over at Lia feeling confused again as she appeared to want to get up and chase her brother down the five flights of stairs. Did Aron mean that he should sleep on the couch then? That is if it was proper in any sense that he should remain the night, which he shouldn’t do though he wished to with all his heart. Lia must have seen his expression,

“ To think I lived in a convent and know what he meant. You poor innocent lamb,” she said leaning against him, pulling his hand to her lips. And with that said, he suddenly understood what had been intended and gulped heavily, leaning back against the couch in disbelief at such implications. Not that he hadn’t thought about them but to have heard them from her brother…

“My dear Mr. Clare, I never thought I’d see you look faint. Would you like to lie down?” Still in a bit of shock he simply nodded moving his body down to the end of the couch, expecting the woman to get up but she didn’t move.

“It’s fine to use my lap. Aron isn’t here to tease us about it,” and before he could stutter an opposition he watched Lia’s hand snake over and land on his shoulder pulling him to lean over. And how could he disobey her?

If he had felt faint before, he was indeed more so now. The feeling of the warmth of his angel’s legs even through her woolen skirts, and her pulse which he didn’t know could be felt in such a place, and a faint smell of almonds.His voice seemed robbed by his angel’s kindness. He could only see the fire now from the new position but felt Lia’s amusement.

“To think we hath made you speechless. It is a rare occasion indeed. We shall have to drink to it later,” she said with a jingle in her tone which for a moment John considered rectifying but he let her have her victory. He could see the corner of his eye her arm reaching out and grabbing a blanket from off the back of the couch and laying it over him before grabbing a book from the small nearby table. With one hand she propped it open and laid her free arm across his back comfortingly,

“For now, let us rest and enjoy the day.”


	2. Ode to Psyche

The rest of the morning seemed to pass with alarming speed in Ophelia’s opinion, even with her poor friend having fallen asleep on the couch his head still lolling on her lap. She wondered how often John slept in the Cholera ward, his precious books and other effects easily stolen if not watched. Or perhaps he had other reasons for little sleep. At least, now he had a place for his things.

But the woman wondered, more like imagined he never needed sleep though she knew it to be impossible. The image came of the powerful, ever-watching gargoyle perched high on a church tower, protecting those within. Yet here he slept, his body having released all its tension, his face soft in the light of the slowly dimming fire light. But yet, she dare not move to take care of the fire for fear of waking her friend. Instead she let her one hand continue to lay over his back, book still in hand as she desperately continued to try to read. But the words on the page blurred as she noticed a change in the man’s breathing or a slight shifting of his body. The couch certainly wasn’t the most comfortable place for him to lie. Perhaps when he moved in, Mr. Jenkins-Ernest, she corrected herself, would help them find a bed to move in next to the small shelf Aron had built in the main room. They would only have to move over the dining table closer to the balcony door.

The thought of it made her feel as if she were sitting with her back directly against the fire, its heat upon her. What had she been thinking, inviting a friend to lie down on her lap? She certainly had never done such a thing with any man before. Yet, it had felt so right and natural with John. His presence brought so much peace to the kind of loneliness she had endured, if she could call it endurance. Sure, she had grown up in a wealthy household, but everyone was kept at a distance from her once her mother passed. And it had only worsened once that wicked woman Evelyn came. It seemed she had been locked away from the outside, if only for her “protection” as her father had claimed. As if she needed to be more aware of her skin condition being something that would cause others to want to hurt her at such a young age. It still pained her to remember those words, though she knew they had been planted by that witch.

Sure, she had Aron to keep her company, but even back then she knew she wanted something different. Even through all those years in the convent, though the sisters would have called her sinful for her thoughts. Blast them, was her opinion. Why else would G-d have given mankind such ability to desire and love, if not to embrace it? And she had been good, and had never acted upon such desires, knowing one would come along. The one person her desire had been directing her towards her whole life would surely come, she always thought. Needless to say, it certainly was a mysterious force that brought her to John.

In such a place of suffering and pain, she often saw him reading or sitting in contemplation.  
At that time, not fully understanding the welling of emotions within her, Ophelia kept her distance. She had felt so unsure of how to approach someone she felt the winds of fate guiding her to. What could she have said? ‘Hello, I believe God just sent me a nudge in your direction. Want to find out why?’ She would have sounded like a nutter. So she watched him when she could, or sometimes worked up the bravery to take a bowl of soup to him. There was the quick exchange of “Thank you, mum” and “You’re welcome” enough times, though she never did correct him, not wanting to insult the man.

But then she watched a woman, named Vanessa do so much more. This woman, who exerted such a powerful force of her own leaving Lia feeling a kind of strange kind of kinship with her, like two opposite magnets nearing. Perhaps that was why she stayed away more so; that kind of attraction felt dangerous. Even the raven eyed woman seemed to notice it as they passed each other when working.

Lia watched the two talk about such wonderful and terrible things: love, poetry, religion, and social customs. Based on how the woman spoke and acted, she and Lia shared a similar upbringing, which Lia found interesting if anything. But she remembered hearing most poignantly about was about his heartbreak, and she wished the worst of G-d’s curses of disobedience upon the head of the woman who caused him to give up on mankind. Lia cursed herself for not saying anything sooner as Vanessa had agreed with him, looking just as haunted.

That was the moment she decided she couldn’t let him go. She had cared about him at a distance for too long. The fear of never seeing him again finally pushed her to do what she should of done months before, and finally speak to him.

And now here he was, on her lap, in her flat. Such miracles it seemed to her that the almighty granted, small ones at the least. Ophelia finally gave up on her book, having not turned the page for at least two hours based on the clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. The fire was lower now for sure, but a large steady log had caught and would safely burn for a while now at least. The woman allowed her attention to turn fully on her friend, her hand on his back still over his spine. She slowly let her fingers trace up and down his shoulder blades, over the worn, black, cotton shirt. She could feel the raised scars, littered along his back as she felt along his lower back as well. She had guessed he would have had them elsewhere besides his face and wondered what they looked like or where they came from. She wondered if John would ever tell her such things though. She did fervently hope that one day he would be comfortable enough to do such things. Perhaps then, she could tell him her own dark secrets.

The man stirred again, more so than before staying Ophelia's hand. Suddenly his head turned, blazing yellow eyes filled with terror as they stared upwards, his body rocketing upwards like a panicked animal. Ophelia kept a firm hold on him somehow, her hand that had been on his back, gripped his shoulder and stayed there. She watched his eyes confusedly search the room until he turned to see her,actually see her, letting out a held breath. Blinking rapidly he exhaled out her name, 

“Lia.” She smiled,hearing her preferred nickname though admittedly a bit worried, considering the circumstance. She used her hand to encourage him to lean back against the couch sitting up, his body tense and muscles almost seeming to twitch against the foreign touch. But she felt she shouldn't let go. His eyes scanned the room as if coming out of a terrible vision of a dream. The woman waited till the heavy breaths calmed before asking,

“Nightmare?” 

“Was I sleeping?” he asked still coming out of it, “ I don't remember falling asleep.” Lia pushed herself to smile,

“Most people don't remember falling asleep. Would rather go against the point of it, don't you think?” A flash of the slightest bit of amusement crossed his features before disappearing again.

“That would make sense,” he was glancing at the clock and then around the room, brow furrowing.

“You slept for around two and a half hours I`d say,” the woman said feeling a bit of entertainment at his confusion. He always seemed so composed whenever they had spoken before. She wondered if he truly was unaccustomed to sleeping. If the nightmares were always that bad, she didn't blame him. When he finally turned to meet her eyes his face was swathed in apology. But she couldn't allow that.

“You didn't drool or anything if that what`s your worried about,unlike Aron who I swear dumps a pitcher of water onto his pillow every night. But,I'm excited to know I am actually a magical slumber-inducing pillow. I must be careful to use my powers more wisely in the future,eh?” John`s face sparked again with a smile.

“ On the contrary, you could surely cure any insomniac. A revelation of the times and surely more effective than magnets. Imagine the headlines,” he spoke quietly, seeming to understand the lack of a need for apology.

“Oh yes! the great cure of the age, ladies and gents for two shillings you too can sleep soundly after a close encounter with the Great slumber-inducing Lady Broderick!” she wiggled her fingers over her head like sparkling lights for greater effect, “ Would you be my manager?” 

“ Of course, great sleep-inducing Lady Broderick, though I certainly will be wary of your power in the future.” It seemed the terrible dream that clung to him was finally starting to loosen its hold and slither back into the darkness. 

“Your first order of business then is to create a catchy title then, Mr. manager. I must admit I have no creativity with such endeavours. And perhaps some tea will help you think?” Ophelia asked satisfied enough to let her hand finally leave him and walk over towards the small stove, grabbing the kettle. 

“Did I hear you say you burn tea?,” the man asked, unsteadily getting up and the woman hearing a few popping sounds as his body recovered from the odd sleeping position,” If so, I can make it. Wouldn`t want to anger your brother.” Ophelia tried not to be offended, since he wasn't entirely wrong. She handed him the kettle, trying not to pout too much, thankful Aron had filled it enough earlier that day. She let him start heating it up while she went over to the fire and worked to bring it back to a full roar. 

Once the fire was tended to, she turned brushing her dress off to see John smiling down at her. He looked lost in thought and she grinned back, standing fully. Lia didn’t think she’d see him with such an expression so many times in a day. Perhaps his face would get sore the next day from smiling so much. She hoped it would. She could think how he just look so right here, the perfect image of domesticity. She let out a happy sigh at such a thought which thankfully he seemed to not hear.

It took the water coming to a rolling boil for him to come back, looking around for the teapot briefly. Lia silently got it and replaced the sodden leaves inside so he could pour the hot water side, and she swirled them around the pot, trying to look elegant but spilling a little over the edges. She wiped it off with a nearby cloth and placed it on the small counter, finding the tea cosy hanging on the wall and placing it over the pot. 

“You take milk or sugar with your tea?” she asked quickly. 

“Usually black. Never had it with anything else to be honest. Builder’s tea I’ve heard it called.” 

“You have worked as a builder then?” She asked, intrigued. He never had talked much about work he had done. His eyes were watching the clock, his lip quivering for a moment. She heard him mumble something and then say,

“ But I am at least strong.” 

“You are strong, bet you could pick me up as easily as you would a flower…” Ophelia thought-or said. Did she just say that aloud? She saw the look of disbelief and amusement on his face and covered her mouth. Oh lord she did, “I mean, So did you-did you ever build houses?” He luckily seemed to be unable to comment...on her comment and answered the question instead.

“More like grunt work. My first bit of work in London was in a theatre actually,” a small, sad, smile lit upon him, “ A man named Vincent took me in, more like a father than anything I had known before.” The woman nodded intently, remembering something.

“Wait, you mean the Grand Guignol? Aron works there sometimes. He heard they had lost a good stage rat a while ago. Vincent is such a kind man, I`ve had tea with him before. I admit though, he is a bit self-absorbed but in a most amusing way” The smile grew. 

“He had admitted it as such to me, the first night I met him. I’m glad for Aron. He likely fits in there much better than I did.” The man`s voice changed to a tone of slight jealousy but he seemed to break himself from it.Ophelia wondered what had happened there. Her mind immediately went to one of the male actors, Samuel, Seth, something starting with S. One day while helping backstage with Aron she watched the cocky twit harass hald the stage crew until a mysterious bucket of water landed on his head. Thankfully her brother wasn’t caught for that particular prank. She smiled at John wondering if he ever did such things. She saw a stray piece of hair dangling forward and reached to move it behind his ear. 

“I doubt anyone could do a better job then you did. I know you do a better job than my brother,” she said thinking of how much Aron goofed off at the theatre. 

“Perhaps I’ll have to see what he thinks about that. Aron will be so sad his sister has so little confidence in him,” The woman gave a quick exaggerated gasp before scoffing,

“I’ll tell him myself. He enjoys pulling pranks of stuck-up actors as much as working. He either never gets caught or Vincent enjoys it. Apparently one of the actors...Stephan, Stewart, Something like that, has had a much cooler temperature with a ‘spirit’ on the loose” A look of recognition passed over her friend’s face,

“Then the company is likely much happier for it. Anyway,should we use the same cups as before?” He went over to the sink where on the small ledge the dishes from earlier had not yet dried.

“ Considering those are the only ones we have, yes,” She said allowing him to change the topic. Ophelia was elated he mentioned anything from his past, even though it seemed to not be entirely happy memories. With her answers the man set himself to taking a small cloth hanging next to where to tea cosy was and drying to cups and dishes, seeming content to make himself useful. As he finished he handed them to her and she set the saucers,cups,and tea strainers on the the table. She glanced at the clock as they finished,

“Just in time,” she said going back over and was about to grab the pot, but John beat her to it and started bringing it back to the table. She pretended to huff in indignance going to grab the sugar instead.

“Well today, another grand adventure shall be sugar with your tea then. Perhaps next time, we’ll be so daring as to try it with milk.” She brought it over and let him pour the tea into the cups before she dropped the sugar in. She took a small spoon and swirled it around till the small cube had dissolved and motioned for him to sit back down. He did so, after placing the cozy back on, and gingerly took a sip as she stirred the sugar into her cup.

“It is...very sweet.” 

“I do believe that is the sugar,” she said without hesitation looking at his face twist in surprise at the taste. She noticed he held the cup well. Yet again he seemed to handle everything with such delicately as if afraid he would break something. She sipped at her own tea,

“Aron likes it black as well or with milk. I am the odd one out in that regard. You might like the milk better.” He nodded in response. 

“I’ll take the next one black then. Thank you for the adventure though.” And for a moment they lapsed into silence Lia amusedly watching John grimace as he finished his cup though trying so hard to not show it. 

“So perhaps we can try a different, less frightening trek then. You ever composed a poem yourself? I can only imagine you could do it as easy as breathing,” she started, “ It takes me so long. I can barely memorize them, but I admit to enjoying attempts at composition,” She sighed a bit thinking, “though I cannot rhyme well without sounding like a child or use the tetrameters. I suppose it sounds bit more...modern though.” She had started just going on again and finally noticed her friend seemed frozen in shock at perhaps her compliment. It maybe was a bit bold of her. Noticing her silence, he stuttered a response,

“I-I don’t think it would be so easy...yet I have never attempted composing myself. Everything I’d ever wanted to say I’ve been able to find better said from greater minds.” Ophelia truly felt surprised and in her excitement, she stated a bit more loudly than she intended,

“Then you must try! If I am able to fumble around and do so, you should be able to as well.” He sat silently, looking a bit flustered, thinking. She had been too forward again, darn it. It was like a bad habit today. What had gotten into her? She sighed and her friend likely mistook her worry saying,

“I can try. I make no promises as to the quality though.” Lia quickly finished her cup in a final sip, getting an idea. She rose from her seat and made her way to the entrance of the bedroom,

“Then I have a present for you,” and before he could protest as she knew he could, the woman almost ran into the room, half-closing the door and rummaging through the small trunk under the bed until she found a small somewhat battered but unused journal. Ophelia had never been one much for keeping daily journal entries, but had one time bought a set of journals at an impulse. This one was the second part of the pair with her current journal, where she kept a variety of her attempts at composition or small drawings when the mood struck her. Bound to it was a small silver mechanical pencil and lead. It seemed the perfect gift, even if the edges were a bit bent and the cover a tad scratched. 

Holding the object behind her back, the woman walked out of the room and watched her friend about to speak as she thrust the small book into his hands,

“No protests. And don’t thank me either. Just use it,” meekly the man held the book looking over it as it it were a precious jewel, obeying her wishes. She certainly hoped so. 

“Ever used one before?” she asked cheekily, breaking the spell of his silence,

“No, but I understand the general idea,” he shot back sounding a bit rough. She couldn’t quite tell if he was trying to joke back or possibly offended by her statement. She hoped she hadn’t offended him. Oh lord, what if he couldn’t write… She started to say an apology when he asked,

“ May I give it a go then?” the roughness smoothed over into excitement.

“Of course,” she stated, feeling like she had dodged a bullet. She watched him write down the date in perhaps not the most elegant lettering, but still sound enough looking. She poured herself a second cup of tea, managing to not spill any and took a few sips peeking over as he wrote, slowly and carefully. 

‘Presented from Miss Ophelia Broderick, the great sleep-inducer who needs a better title. Perhaps, the gracious Miss Broderick or generous Miss Broderick.’ The woman couldn’t hide her happiness looking at what he wrote,

“Much more apt, and easier to say for sure,” she said as John looked up, smiling again.

“I have used it. Now may I thank you?,” he put down the book and pencil, 

“I suppose I shall have to accept your thanks since you did as I asked,” the woman said smiling back at him. 

“This may be the most precious gift I have ever received. Thank you.” 

“ Speaking of presents and books, you see the empty shelves behind me?” the woman said pointing over her shoulder. Aron had made them quickly, working with some extra material Vincent gave them, about three sets high and a hands width wide. She still needed to sand and stain them, but they had been made in time somehow. 

“That’s for your things. Aron and I hoped it would be enough space. Care to test it out?” John peeked around her,

“I was curious,seeing it before. I hope I’m not forcing you nor your brother to move your things elsewhere for me.”

“Nonsense. Aron built it at my request.I still have to do the finishing touches eventually, but it’s almost there.” the man’s face flew into shock at such a statement . After today he might not be able to say he could be ever be surprised again if she kept this up.

“Surely you jest.”

“Did I not say we intend you to be able to live here,” she said with a sly grin, “I was thinking not to long ago about the best placement for a bed out here. Even if you are not working right away, I have a small set of funds to pull from for such things.” It seemed he could not speak. His eyes darted from her to the journal and shelf behind her. 

“It is too much, Ophelia. I have nothing to offer to match the kindness you are offering. I can’t become a burden here.” 

“You can call me, Lia you know. Also, then let us talk to Earnest. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“I hardly think I look appropriate for such work,” he said with a bit of a sigh.

“Then we’ll get you some proper clothes. A nice beige shirt perhaps with a matching collar...perhaps a dark waistcoat and pants to contrast it. And you might look nice in a bowler. We could bind your hair back with it,” she said appraisingly, thinking about what colors would work well together. Better yet, they could go down to Monmouth street first for a few cheaper items before visiting the shops Aron often went to. She knew she had a measuring tape somewhere in her trunk and could get his measurements today as well.

“...Lia,” the man said calmly, her nickname still sounding foreign to him to say aloud it seemed,” That’s not what I meant,” The woman looked up at him as he drew a shaky breath.

“Oh,nonsense. You’d be working in the back and doing deliveries most likely once you’re hired. No need to hide. Old Earnest cares more about someone’s ability to read and love books as earnestly as he does,” she said with a giggle at her own terrible joke, hoping it would be enough to stop John’s train of thought. He scoffed, whatever self-insult he would have said, shaken off for now. But for how long? 

Without thinking Opehlia got up and moved to the closer chair, schooching it up next to his, and then leaning in and kissing forehead,

“And when you live here, i’m going to make it a house rule that you’re not allowed to talk badly about yourself in that way.” She watched him take another deep shaky breath as he tried to move away, and she noticed he was starting to tear up, though he was trying to hide it. Oh lord, what did she do now? Feeling a bit of panic, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around him, unsure of what else to do. She had seen him cry from a distance back in the Cholera ward to many times. She always imagined she could do this. Perhaps it was a selfish thing for her to do.

But then she felt his arms wrap around her awkwardly at first and she could hear the somewhat held back, choked sobs. She rubbed her hand up and down his back slowly, the same way she had done after saving Aron from the fire. He had just been a boy then.But still, even so young he was ashamed to cry in front of her. It was a silly thing really, she thought. If crying lets out the pain, let it leave like poison from a wound. After a moment, John’s grip shifted and grew tighter around her, his head on her shoulder as they both leaned against each other. His body shook from sobs now, seeming to understand that she was accepting of the emotions. She stayed quiet in that moment, continuing to hold him and that space for him. If he was like any other man she had known, he likely had always been forced to be the strong one, in the face of others, whether it be physical injury or ridicule. 

She remembered watching as John had waited for Vanessa to leave before giving in to weeping. She always thought it was so sad he had waited. As far as Ophelia was concerned, if you wanted to be honest with someone, then seeing them at their most vulnerable state, perhaps their worst state was sometimes the most honest way to see them. And it seemed when men or anyone couldn’t be honest they resorted to violence as the only other option of showing emotion .It helped no one. 

The woman felt her shoulder of her dress grow damp.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled after a while, still leaning against her, “I’m so sorry. Your dress is wet.” He slowly pulled back.

“It seemed something that needed to happen long ago. To many of us try to bear the weight of the world alone. We are not titans, John, or gods. We are but mere mortals,” she said finally releasing her hold on him quickly getting up and grabbing a handkerchief from a table near her bed and going back out to give it to her friend. She watched him wipe his face as she thought. She knew his view on a lack of afterlife, but assumed just because he had pagan views didn’t mean be actually believed humans were meant to endure this world alone. Even if they were somehow only accountable to themselves. 

“I have always been alone,” the man started to say, the woman feeling a twinge of anger but mostly sadness at such a statement,

“Well, you’re not,” she shot back, “And I don’t intend you to ever be so again.” 

“You can’t ensure such a thing,” he said with a long sigh, “I can’t accept that. No one has done that,” he paused for a moment, “ You don’t know enough about me to say such things.”

“Then tell me. I want to know.” He looked both angry and worried for a moment.

“I can’t.”

“That’s fine as well. I make no promises. I’m simply saying my intentions. Call me insane, but from the first moment I met you, I felt the light of God’s path open up and tell me to go to you. I was a fool to not have followed it sooner. I dare not try to explain it,for I know not how, but these past few months spending time with you have been some of the best of my life,” she said more rapidly than she would have liked but amazed at the words tumbling from her mouth before she had the chance to process them. She felt pinpricks of tears herself. If she hadn’t scared him off before. This was bound to do it. So much for keeping composure during the visit, she thought. To late now, “I can no longer imagine a life without you there,” she blurted out. The man was shaking his head in disbelief.

“Lia…” he slowly moved his hand over hers, “I have dreamed for to long of such things being said. I never thought of what to say in return. I never thought about what it would be like with that other person...what they might have to endure being with me,” he paused taking a long breath, “I can never go to a ball with you, take you to a fine restaurant, or stroll in a garden in the light of the summer sun. I am made for the dark and lonely places. You are like a beautiful flower I dare not close the shutters on. I don’t want you to be trapped in my world.” Lia took his hand between hers.

“Then I shall bring you into mine,” she said taking a steadying breath, “And in case you’re wondering, yes I have thought about it. In case you forgot, I too have lived in the dark and lonely places. I decided to slowly come back into the light. I’ll show you the way.” 

She watched her friends face twist with guilt at her words. She gently let go of his hand, going across the room, picking up the book of Keat’s poetry she had been reading earlier. She saw the bookmark marking the page of the poem she kept going back to time and time again. She felt her heart fluttering at the idea of what she was about to do, for it felt more personal than any confession she had yet made. It was in the language John knew best, certainly better than she did. Clutching the book to her chest she went back and sat down beside him.

“Maybe you were right, about poetry I mean. Keats said something far better than I ever could. I may not be able to pull it from memory but if you’ll bear with me, I want to read something to you.” He nodded in response silently as she opened the book trying not to shake. How many times had she tried to remember just this one stanza so she could tell it to her dearest friend. But it was fine like this. She started, trying to pretend she was just practicing as she had with this for the last few weeks.

“ Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane   
In some untrodden region of my mind,   
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,   
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:   
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees   
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;   
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,   
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;   
And in the midst of this wide quietness   
A rosy sanctuary will I dress   
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,   
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,   
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,   
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:   
And there shall be for thee all soft delight   
That shadowy thought can win,   
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night-”

But before Ophelia could finish the last line, John grasped her hand away from the book, bringing it to his lips. He held it there for a moment with both hands before finishing the last line.

“To let the warm Love in.”


	3. The summer and spring storm

John and Ophelia sat in silence, the man eventually leaning back evidently taking in everything that had been said. The woman sat back as well giving him time, flipping through the book of Keat’s work and sipping her tea. Of course, he would have known the poem, she thought. It seemed to get through to her friend very clearly at the least. She still felt the touch of his lips to her hand lingering, which kept bringing a flicker of a smile to the corner of her mouth.

Every once and awhile she peeked over to see the John deep in thought, his fingers sliding over the rim of his now empty cup or wringing his hands lightly. His expressions went from peaceful to grieved, tears pricking his eyes once more. But they seemed to finally land on acceptance before he spoke.

“I dare not say the words that, even hinting at their essence, caused someone pain. But I feel the warmth of your feelings and how I wish to be able to give such warmth back,” His voice was still shaky, body and soul recovering from too many hardships, “I can’t lose you if we continue like this. Too long have I been alone, Lia. I dare not become used to the sun’s light only to be thrust back into the dark again.” He was back to wringing his hands together, head downcast. He seemed haunted by memories, the degree of their atrocity she could only imagine. She dare not let him linger though and put down the book and reached over lifting her friend’s chin to make sure he was here with her and not trapped behind the wall of his past as he so often seemed to be.

“You’ll never lose me. The light in the casement burns ever bright, no matter the distance or time. You are that bright torch for me, blazing the brightest in darkness but never snuffed out by sunlight.” The man’s face softened as she spoke, but yet she felt compelled to stand and go next to her friend, loosely wrapping her arms around his neck, her hands dangling over his chest. He leaned his head against her arm and grasped her hands with his.

“ Do you think you’re God will be displeased to know you pray to another?” he said quietly, his breath warm against her arm as he slowly moved his fingers over hers. His tone was light, even sounding a bit droll. She found herself elated to hear his voice lift from its previous despair.

“I think he will understand considering it was his plan. But will you forgive yourself the day you find someone to pray to, even if it is not my God?” The man gleamed with laughter. 

“If you mean yourself, I may not keep a sanctuary as you do in my mind. Instead I have a small garden I tend to, with all the flowers that faith brings and scouring for weeds of doubt.

In that place, there is never darkness only a shaded trellis of your compassion which I sometimes lie under when the sky grows cloudy. The rain tastes of conversations in dark places which water the generous blossoms.

But yet it may not be all the fancy a gardener could feign, but it grows healthily all the same.”  
The man finished, his eyes closed and mouth pulled into a contented grin as he spoke seeming to be roaming this garden of imagination. She did not recognize his words as any poem she had read and felt a knowing grin creep into her.

  
  


“As easy as breathing, as I said before,” she said kissing his head jovially as his eyes opened and he came back to this world. She continued, “I think you’d surprise yourself if you actually start writing such things down. And now you have no excuse.” she released one of her hands from his to pick up the journal and wave it around before he grasped it from her and put it back down again, amused. She released him from her hold as he picked up the pencil and opened the small book to a new page. As he began writing she stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder fingers curling around a loose piece of hair. She hoped he was focused enough to dismiss her actions as she has always desired to caress his long charcoal locks. Once he had written down all he had said to an extent she allowed herself to comment.

“ I do wish I could visit such a place, though I might grow tired of the lack of night. Without it, the day becomes harder to appreciate, does it not?” 

“I could never grow tired of it with you, I think,” he said back almost without thinking. Ophelia giggled,

“Such a romantic you are. But I do hope there will be no griping when I pull you from the shadows.” She continued to play with the same lock of hair thoughtfully as the man put down the pencil and closed the journal. He turned his body so he was looking at her as she sadly released the strand of hair she was holding,

“Is it all this simple? Such confessions of one’s deepest feelings? All these unsaid strings of actions built up until the heart bursts with words to explain them… Love I always assumed would brim more heavily with metaphors and rhyme.” He was smiling, finally having to have accepted all that had been said in such a short time. The woman grinned back at him,

“Giving our vulnerability to another, I think is what makes us the most human. Though it may be the hardest action to take, our animal fibers fighting against the very thought,” Lia said, “ Especially when one has likely been shown cruelty for showing such a part of themselves” She spoke, giving further admission to her uncouth behavior in watching him from afar for so long fearfully in the dark afraid of his rejection or worse, anger. She still berated herself for such childish thoughts. 

“Whose cruelty do you speak of? Surely you have been spared such indecencies.” The woman shook her head sitting back down again.

“I speak of what I know you have endured...before you ever hinted at such things in our talks. Before I was brave enough to ask you for myself,” the woman began her confession biting her lip and sitting back down. So many things were being revealed already. She continued,  
“I do envy Miss Ive’s boldness in her endeavour to speak to you first. I had always been better at keeping to the quiet shadows then approaching someone for conversation. I marveled at her ease and wit and found myself aligning my schedule to hers in hopes I could learn the magic of her ways. I so often caught myself watching her be able to speak the language you know best effortlessly. How jealous I was.” She could not bring herself to look at John, feeling a growing shame for the immodesty of her actions, but yet it brought such a sense of relief. She felt John’s fingers land on her cheek, prompting her to look back up, her finger’s moving to meet his so he could not retract. She so much wanted-needed his hand to remain there. He did not look angered or disgusted by her actions, but surprisingly entertained and showing only a hint of embarrassment. 

“To think I wondered if the ward was merely haunted from all the lost souls within. You played a beautiful ghost then for I often felt a angelic presence. As i’m sure you know, I too am dear friends with the shadows which hide me away as I ask them. Speaking with Miss Ive’s always felt like communing with the shadows, my only true companions for so long. And she was like a doting mother to them, moving them at her will. How could I resist?” he looked off into the distance nostalgically. Ophelia nodded in agreement wondering if that too was part of the kinship she felt with the other woman. She felt surprise at him noting on her own feelings of being a ghost wandering through the world sometimes, gloriously detached except to help those that needed it, like the ghost of christmas present from Mr. Dicken’s novel. She even had to hold back a grin at him calling her an angelic presence. If only he knew angels were not always what they seemed. 

“I don’t anyone could resist her powers if they tried,” the woman responded ,”Though one day I hope I may be able to run into her again in a more pleasant setting. She looked so...lost when I last saw her but I know naught where she is or what excuse to make to give comfort.”

“Have you ever felt abandoned by your God?” the man asked, his eyes still far away in thought.The woman shook her head. She felt the lord’s presence in ways no one could ever understand in fact like an overbearing father sometimes. In the past she wished release from his sheltering gaze and that of his apparitions. But she had come to accept her fate now, and had been rewarded most gloriously it seemed. 

“No,” she replied simply.

“Then I don’t think you would have been able to help her. Miss Ives is the type to figure things out in her own way I would gather, as we all end up doing. But alas we may find her again where hopefully she will have found her peace.” 

“I dearly hope so,” said Ophelia wistfully. John seemed to come back to the present looking down at her slightly amused.

“But yet, to think I would meet someone who has such similar habits to my own. Yet I think you should surpass me in ability if only for your height.” 

“ Ah yes, I sometimes feel like a mouse sneaking through the city’s streets. I learned very young how to do so. My so-called step-sisters even sometimes called me a spotted rat for being able to evade their wrath. They never were very creative with their taunts to be sure.” The woman scoffed, trying not to think about that particular part of her childhood, “Yet again they were only the children of my father’s mistress, so I tried to not pay them any mind.” John looked concerned,

“Surely your father did not allow such actions to be often taken against you?” The woman shook her head,

“He was too busy being bewitched by their mother to pay any mind to me. Only once that foul woman died, did he start to regain the fullness of his more...protective nature.He still supports her remaining child, I hear, when he can. It’s very noble of him I guess,” she said with an annoyed sigh. 

“You so rarely speak about the man. Was there so little between you?” she could feel his curiosity swelling and decided to relent a bit more. 

“Oh no, nothing like that. He loves me as much as a father could love a daughter,” she said with a sad smile, “ But after my mother passed, god bless her soul, this witch of a woman took him and his grief using it to her advantage. I was powerless to do anything back then.” John’s hand was over hers again and the calm of watching the first snowfall enveloped her.

“I’m so sorry to hear.” She waved it off with her free hand. 

“I was saved from having to be in the house with him and those people by going to the convent. For six years I was well treated and surrounded by a wonderful group of women. I still keep the letters my father sent...when he could send them anyways. I never could bring myself to go back though, I think. We’ve been apart for so long, I can’t imagine it.” She turned her hand over in John’s so she could grasp at his fingers with her own. She ran her index over the edge of his pinky thoughtfully, “What about your father? Is he the family you mentioned?” She felt her friend’s hand grow stiff beneath hers. She tried not to worry about it as she had guessed his family life was a subject of great torment and she would not pry too far. 

“My father….left me when I was very young. But he accorded to me, his books to learn from if I should ever claim a glint of thanks for the man. I think he liked the concept of me more, a thing existing in the great works. Instead I only try to understand them from this utterly physical world.” Ophelia laced her fingers more firmly through his hearing a detached dejection in his tone.

“Surely your mother-” she started cautiously but he stopped her,

“I never knew my mother. In the norse mythos, I read of a goddess Rán who controls the seas and storms. Sometimes I feel as if she calls to me as the storm which pulses through me in my darkest hours or her rain like a damp embrace,” he said in a ramble, looking out the window now, “The darkness of her weather never scared me but shrouded me from others peeings eyes, and so she nurtured me through many long nights.” The woman looked down in shock at her and John’s entwined hands. To think of her friend as a poor, book-laden child wandering the streets made her wish to curse such a man who left him. But it was not a power she would dare wish to attain as she already had her own beholden strengths to right wrongs. But what was important now was that he was no longer alone. Perhaps if he had this mythical Rán, he had never truly been alone. She wondered,

“Do you pray to this Rán then?” she asked, still looking out the window as John replied.

“Do you ever speak to your mother as she is then?” he questioned back gently, it seemed, simply for curiosity's sake. Naturally, her mother was in her prayers. Otherwise she would not deign to speak with a spirit.

“When I was still young I did. I was teased relentlessly when those girls who lived in my house found out. The eldest, Hecate, was the cruelest of the mistress’s children. She often said spirits would never find peace in heaven and hence roamed the earth. She even tried to get me to play their hellish games for inviting such things. But I refused. So, my mother has always resided merely in my prayers.” Ophelia looked back at her friend whose yellow eyes were now intently focused on her.

“Is there a difference between a conversation and a prayer then, if the being you are speaking to cannot respond?” he asked, his tone edged with worry. She felt his hand gripping back at hers. The woman pushed back visions of Ouija boards and séances being viewed through slotted openings in doors and smiled back at her friend to relieve his worried gaze.

“All a matter of how one calls it, I suppose then. But you never answered my inquiry as I have yours.” John smiled back.

“I wished to ascertain your view first and so I have. This storm mother of mine, I never gave offerings or ever begged a favor. I simply found myself rejoicing in her works both dangerous but beautiful when they are seen as such. Her rains bring life to the farmer`s field yet can destroy entire fleets. Some might claim it to be a divine cleansing and so I would be assured the many men who knew her were awed and respectful of her will.” Truly it seemed then her friend would be this goddess’s kin ,something unearthly clinging to him with a haunting presence. And both were certainly, for many, misunderstood as people would curse the rain storm even if it brings forth beautiful gardens in its wake. The woman nodded in response at first as she finished collecting her thoughts. Her free hand went to her tea cup and she quickly finished the last few sips of the now-cold tea. 

“I myself have enjoyed your mother`s company then, dancing in her storms when I could. I am happy to have met her already before her son so I may gain her blessings in regard to him. Do you bring storms as well?” she asked in jest. John looked at her happily until her last comment when his smile dimmed.

“I may have been gifted such powers, but I fear they control me more than I them.” He looked out the window once more. The woman moved her hand that had been playing with the now empty tea cup back over to her friend.

“ Yet I have never seen a hint of such weather within you. I always see you as a summer storm, just as the seasons start to turn towards fall, bringing the perfect cooling touch to an otherwise hot night.” Ophelia thought wistfully. Or said...She wasn’t sure if she had spoken aloud once more and then heard her friends breath hitch. Her face flushing bright red again she quickly stood up grabbing her cup and saucer and bringing them to the sink unable to bring herself to look at her friend. She heard him getting up as well as the chink of his cup as he walked across the room coming to stand behind her. She spoke without turning,

“But whether or not you are the master of cleansing waters, you need not wash the dishes,” she said with a nervous laugh as she started washing and effectively blocking the small sink from him. She felt him nudge her hand with his dishes which she took and put into the basin. She expected him to move back towards the table after but he did not. In fact, maybe it was her imagination but he seemed to grow closer. 

“If I am the summer storm you are the cleaning dawn as sunlight just peeks out over the horizon, the rain having stilled to silence. The fine cool mists that hangs in the air to help with the coming heat of day.” The woman flushed further as she felt his fingers running over her hair, across her upper back.

“Mr. Clare, you never stop astonishing me,” she said breathily as her body stilled at the man’s touch, which was sending rivulets of sensation throughout her entirely. She closed her eyes praying he wouldn’t stop as if a sliver of movement would break the spell. But finally she felt herself lean back into his touch just slightly but as soon as she did his hand disappeared. Her eyes opened to see what looked like him skittering back across the room. Though she never thought a man of his stature would manage to skitter. Her body recovered from the momentary frozen state and Ophelia felt the most base urges rise within her, demanding to swiftly pull John back into her arms...which was entirely unladylike and she could do such thing while she felt this ache within her. She feared any more brass actions until the feeling abated and held back a groan of frustration from the part of her which demanded she move. 

 

“ I hope your astonishment is of a good nature then,” the man said quietly from across the room. The woman laughed, shaking off the desire as best she could for now. 

“What other kind could I have?” she responded quietly asking him to come back. He would have to bring the teapot over eventually as it was. She went back to washing his dishes now hoping he would overcome his shyness once more. But he lingered by the windows without response, his hands running over the back of a chair. John’s back was to her again and she washed as quickly as she could. She relented to her feelings with an admission praying it would bring him back.

“My surprise lies in such joyful feelings when you are close , if I may be so bold to say,” she further explained giving in to her desirous thoughts.

“I find it hard to believe such things. But yet, I have never known them. Is such stillness to a man’s touch common among ladies?” he asked cautiously. 

“I can speak for no others for my relationship with women has been mainly those loyal to God. But my stillness merely shows the restraint my sex must show else we be called to the street for men’s nightly passions. I have known no other man. Hence, I wish not to scare you with how far my feelings would envelop you,” The woman said scrubbing a dish, feeling herself grow hot as she spoke. She could hardly believe the words forth from her lips, but to hell with it. She looked back to see shock for sure,

“I too can be the storm, damp May blossoms pulled to the wind by my will, if you would believe me.” He seemed to understand her meaning though, his expression thoughtful. 

“ Excuse me. I don’t know what I’m saying,” she said after a moment feeling utterly silly and likely further scaring the poor man. Her passions should remain her own else she might damage his already bruised petals, “Could you please bring me the teapot? Or if you desire you could be organizing your things on the shelves, since it’s partly why you came here,” she said as jovially as she could, feeling embarrassed by her outburst.

“Of course,” he said quietly lost in thought, as he did what was requested of him. He seemed as much confused with taking in her emotions as much as she did expressing them.

Ophelia couldn’t help but notice how John wouldn’t meet her gaze as he walked towards her, instead looking down at the floor. He handed the pot to her quickly, his hands barely brushing hers before walking over to his bag. What was wrong? Had he misunderstood her somehow? She watched him bring the bag next to the shelves, carefully pull books out of his bag and organize them. Ophelia put the teapot in the basin deciding to wash it later, dried her hands, and crept over to John with a plan of sorts. She shouldn’t have resisted her previous desire. For heaven’s sake she finally admitted her long reserved love and he had returned her affections; there was no need to hold back so severely considering she had waited months for this day. 

The woman stood behind him as he now sat cross-legged on the floor having finished organizing the books onto the shelves and was not putting a few small trinkets on the top level, likely from his days working at the theatre. She looked over the book titles as she leaned down, hovering behind her friend who slowed his movements noticing her but didn’t stop. She saw “Paradise Lost,” “Metamorphosis of Apuleius,” “Hunchback of Notre Dame,” “Count de Monte Cristo,” “The Man who Laughs,” a collection of works by Edgar Allen Poe, a few smaller volumes of collected poetry by both Brownings, Tennyson, Mallory, Arnold and the old masters as well. Certainly an eclectic collection to be sure, she noted before allowing herself to lean close enough to rest her arms on John’s shoulders, her hair falling over his face impeding his work. She felt him turn to stone beneath her as his muscles tensed. She would not relent though, using his shoulders as a support the woman adjusted her position so she could kneel behind her friend, moving her hair out of the way. She draped her arms around him once more, trapping him in her embrace completely saying,

“Earnest will surely be impressed. I assume many books have come and gone over the years from your collection?” 

“Ye-yes,” the man muttered in utter confusion.

“Do you still have any books on Norse mythology? You have flooded my interest in the subject.” The man gulped deeply, shifting beneath her. He felt so sturdy, holding her weight as if it were nothing. 

“No, not anymore. I am sure you could find one on monmouth street. It is where I often am able to find more affordable titles.” His voice steadied as he spoke. He mind seemed to settle as well from whatever misunderstanding it had. 

“You’ll have to show me when we go there tonight then and if not we can ask Earnest when we see him. He does have a fascination with such things himself. And never be afraid to approach me as you did. As I said I do enjoy such things, you know,” she said running her hand through his hair as best as she could. She doubted he had ever had been able to use a brush with his circumstances. She felt him relax with complete understanding beneath her.

“We are going tonight?” he asked, his voice gaining a modicum of confidence back.

“I’m sorry. I was thinking if we visit Earnest soon then tonight would be a good start for some new clothes. We could go after dark of course. I’ll just have to acquire your measurements before we go and that can happen after lunch as well,” she spoke twirling a lock of his hair again thoughtfully, “Maybe they would even have the kind of book I desire. I do enjoy a good book hunt. Is not the smell of books in a crowded shop just intoxicating?” The man made a sound of amused agreement.

“I do admit I have hid between shelves in such a place when reading and have come to enjoy the scent,” he said his hand tentatively reaching back, blindly searching along her shoulder until he found a loose strand of her hair which he lightly stroked, “And thank you for your reassurance.” The woman leaned her head on his, her hands moving to play with the edge of the collar of his shirt.

“Of course, my darling,” she said, the words tasting strange on her tongue, like an exotic fruit in which every bite is to be savored. But as soon as he seemed to grasp what she said, John went slack beneath her likely from disbelief and she felt herself slipping sideways, pulling the man with her ending up with him half sprawled over her on the ground. Lia looked up at the ceiling and then sideways to her friend who looked ridiculous, as much she probably did. What a pair they were. She smiled as the man tried to apologize but simply found herself giggling madly. He gave up and laughed along for a moment.

“Darling eh?” he said looking up at the ceiling too, his words joyfully thoughtful. Lia pulled herself out, not wanting to ruin a perfectly good opportunity and moved so she could put an arm on either side of john’s shoulders while he was still on the ground. No more resisting, she thought as she took a steadying breath, her eyes focusing on the darkened lips she wished to meet with her own. The man was still beneath her, his hair splayed out his hands moving to grip her arms. 

Lia got close enough to taste the bitterness of the tea lingering on his breath, her one arm moving to hold herself as she put a hand to his cheek, feeling the ridges of the scars along his face. Their eyes met and she swore the yellow had become a blaze of fire inviting her towards their warmth. For a moment the world grew quiet around them as one of john's hands reached up to mirror Ophelia’s action, his cool fingers moving along from her temple down her cheekbone and touching her lips. he saw him wilt as his hand caressed her cheek his eyes flickering down as his hand moved to pull hers away from his face. He seemed to shrink away.

Ophelia refused to allow him to feel such embarrassment and leaned down kissing his temple instead and moved her lips along the scar down his cheek, her other hand holding his head so he wouldn't pull away. She felt his arms wrap firmly around her pulling her flush against him as she finished, laying her head against his. He gazed at her in wonder as she felt the heavy sensations run through her once more at his all enveloping touch. Seemingly drunk on the happiness she felt at that moment the woman sweetly asked,

“Shall it be forever then, thee and me?”


	4. Playing the mechanicals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Authors's note: Sorry all for the very long wait. Life got busy, sadly as it does. But I got a lot research done for the rest of the story and especially for this chapter. And thanks to all our readers out there!^^ <3

The two stayed on the ground holding each other after Ophelia spoke, seemingly both unable to comment further and let themselves enjoy the closeness. That is until the woman heard the growl of her stomach and they both yielded to lunch. The world came rushing back dizzyingly as they both shakily stood up, the sounds of the city buzzing beneath them, and the sun now shining fiercely enough to start to dissipate the remaining snow after so many had already turned it to mush on the streets. Ophelia enjoyed the touch of the winter sun on her back as well as the lingering warmth from John’s embrace, his scent now of burnt maple wood and weathered pages with her as well. They stood facing each other silently before walking over towards the small kitchen area where John motioned towards the pot of soup her brother had left for them and she nodded in response before going to make a fresh pot of tea. What could either of them have said after such a surprising turn of events?

Ophelia let herself focus on making another pot of tea, but could feel the tingling of the man’s scars from where her lips met them and her longing to meet his lips. She looked over briefly at him to see he had glanced back at her as well and she watched his darkened lips tilt into a shy smile before getting back to work on heating the soup up. She surely promised herself to meet his lips by the end of this night as well as cursing her stomach for interrupting them. They both got to the point where all they could do was wait and the woman found it within herself to break the peaceful silence.

“You know, The Jenkins have been great friends to those in Goodsheaven for many years. Ernest has known Sister Bridget, who now runs the library there, for over twenty years at least. He supplies them with the newest publications as often as he can. That’s how I came to know of him, working with her. She pens letters to him at least once a month as a fond friend and literary fiend. “ Ophelia leaned back against the small counter as her friend stood within an arm’s reach listening to her with rapt attention.

“I wouldn’t imagine such a place having many books beyond your bible,” he said as his face twisted into curiosity and slight disbelief. The woman looked back in slight shock at such an assumption,

“Oh, that is simply not true. People of the faith have been literate for centuries, even though the darkest of times. Many of the Fathers and Sisters I know are far better read than I will ever be and dare I say, hunger more heavily for works of the world than I. You might even find a few with your level of poetic appreciation.” The man nodded, grateful to the idea and silently thanked Lia for the slight correction, even a bit embarrassed.

“As long as they would not have the intention to convert me, I would very much enjoy such company, though I doubt their mercy even commanded by your God would extend upon me with true kindness,” John said easily and with a smiling sigh. Lia felt her heart fall a bit for it seemed he did not see the sadness of his statement. She searched his eyes worriedly and his face turned to shame. She reached out her hand to grasp his arm about to speak but he quickly said,

“Excuse my usual self-flagellations. I know they torment you so but it is what I feel. I would dearly hope that it were not true and such people knew the kindness of their religions within themselves truly.” John looked down as Ophelia stroked his arm comfortingly, proud of his own correction.

“You would have to meet the sisters at least once at Goodsheaven. The sisters at the ward, I think, have grown as hard as the brick and darkness that surrounds them and therefore are hardly an example of a more studious person of faith. Their work is most wonderful and needed though, God bless them. The women I worked with for those years were as gentle as lambs unless mischief was about. ” John’s hand laid over hers, his fingers intertwining with hers as he brought her hand to his chest almost unconsciously and she felt his heartbeat once more and she felt herself grow quiet as she wished for her head to rest where her hand lie.

“Miss Ives once told me her experience in the faith was none too gentle to her, and made mention of nuns giving her cause for worry. I assumed such personage were the cause of her religion’s arduousness nature for her.” Lia felt her thoughts grow slightly fuzzy as now the man’s fingers slowly drifted over the back of her hand in thought and she drew herself slightly closer to him. She felt honored that he was able to at least speak to her more freely of Miss Ives even if his family were to remain a secret for now. She vaguely remembered hearing snippets of that conversation when she had spied upon the two friends’ months before as well. She felt painfully sorry for the woman’s mistreatment whatever it was and more so now than before, wished she could speak to the Miss Ives herself. But she wondered,

“Perhaps she brought mischief to nuns she had met before. I myself may have done such small acts of disagreeable behavior to get a stern eye in past years,” she admitted impishly, wondering if such a gentle woman could have been a bit of a rascal in her youth as much as Lia herself may have been on occasion.The man grinned at her wicked admission asking,

"Surely I would have thought you a guiltless cherub among the lord's flock." His voice conveyed his disbelief and went to show how well the woman had learned to rein herself and her secrets in over the years. Yet again, John must have viewed her as the goddess of mercy from once they had begun speaking . She took an almost childish delight sometimes in relenting her more human nature to him always to see the man only grow yet more fond of her. But he kept himself clasped tightly shut all this time. He would speak endlessly to her of philosophy, society, of course poetry but had always steered gently around the topic of himself. So, she learned to let the conversations be about her as unbalanced as they were. One day soon she planned to tip the scales back into balance. She kept her contented expression even as she plotted.

"Mr. Clare!,” she started jokingly, “ You said yourself I was an angel once, and so...for the most part..I was. Unless I was a mouse hungry for a bit of cheese. Sister Margaret was in charge of the kitchen and though stern, took me in when I snuck away from chores. I always felt like I was about to be caught in a mouse trap under her gaze, but she somehow always let me get away with a little nibble on whatever she was working on. She even taught me how to bake, though that is about all I can do. If it involves an oven I have hefty chance of the food surviving."

"What a useful set of skills then, Miss Broderick," he said in joking admonishment, taking on the tone of an elder, which in truth he was. He might of been five to ten years older than her, she guessed from how he looked. Not that she minded. The men of her age besides Aron, most of the time were always naive, prancing, little fools expecting her to swoon at every dripping cliche they spoke. And that was from what little she had experienced of them. None of them could match John's natural ease of intelligence or his serious aura which she preferred. Years of living with Carmelite nuns gives one such a preference. She had learned to appreciate the silence and solitude of the life in the convent and even more so the people that could enjoy such things outside of it. She remembered Mother Franciose, the abbess speaking to them of how only in solitude and silence could one not only commune with the lord better but with themselves.

'One is only distracted from learning about oneself with talking to others and therefore those that prattle to others all day stay as naive as a babe,' she had instructed when Lia had arrived as their ward initially. She never did fully quit herself of the habit of speaking over-much, to Mother Francoise's disappointment but she set herself to being a divine example in other ways and slowly earned all the Sisters' love which she had been so far from her at home. she still viewed the sisters more as family in many ways for the love they shared.

The woman quickly brought herself back from getting too lost in her own thoughts and looked down in a feigned shame to his feigned sternness.

"Such things have served me well. It seems you have perhaps a similar set of tools which you may pull from as needed. Perhaps not baking, but hiding as you have said. Building is a wonderful talent that indeed as well and I wish to see your work one day. Perhaps Vincent would take you back on." she started trying her usual gentle lean towards him, hoping he would have been eased into answering after her rambles this morning. She watched his face turn from that of the elder to a scolded child as she mentioned Vincent. He had done something wrong there at the theatre. That was what his expression told her. Something bad enough that he left the company of whom he considered a good friend. She had watched him shift with minor discomfort every time the old theatre manager had been mentioned. She longed to know what could have been so terrible, but as it was she would have to continue to glean such things from his reactions. The dance of her peering within him would continue with such gentle swaying of conversation. She wondered if she could convince him to dance with her as she had once seen him and Miss Ives did.

She wasn't necessarily fond of the stiff dancing at balls but the thought of being held in a the arms of an intimate friend as they slowly twirled about made her internally swoon. She felt like a silly lovesick child at her own reaction but yet adored the sensation of it all. For today all the blooms of relationship she had planted and tended to with her friend had finally bloomed this day. It was the pagan festival of their love: she longed to dance around the maypole and make flower wreaths for her and John to wear. He would, gently try to convince her he did not dance and could not wear such a ring of flowers but she would win in the end.

Her vision was broken by the sound of the teapot singing and the boil of the soup. She set to work on bringing two thin wood blocks to the table for the two pots and the man quietly followed her lead. She would have to tip the scales of conversation once more.

"But no worries about that. I'm sure old Ernest will keep you plenty busy and if Aron has his way, you'd be chained to the kitchen whenever he cooks if you have the ability to help. You know, Ernest was the one who offered me this chance here in London to work alongside the active orders. Sister Bridgette admitted they spoke of me in their exchanges. Once he learned I was not a novice there and merely a ward he was very firm in his offer of bringing me into 'good company in society' and treating me as if I were his own daughter. Sister Bridgette must have spoken well enough for me, though she always had kept her letters to herself," the woman went on for a bit lightly as the two brought the pots over before going back for bowls, cups, and silverware. The man seemed at least a pinch more amused and found his voice again,

"Do you see him as a father then, at least here in London?" 

"Naturally. What I would have given to have grown up climbing bookshelves and learning to run a shop with such a kindly person.But alas all I can do is give him the affection and attention of a daughter. I usually visit him for supper twice a week since Aron is usually working late with friends as is it. There is always a good bit of conversation to savor or a fun bit of discourse to have. And of course talk of the newest publications," Ophelia spoke as she went to the main door leaving John by the table to check if the milk had been left for Aron's tea by Mrs. Jenkins. Indeed it had been, and Lord she had a quiet step for the woman had not been heard dropping it off. As she closed the door again the man seemed more at ease.

"Then I suppose it would be an honor to meet your chosen father. Though I fear my skills in the art of polite discourse and my lack of knowledge in current works are sorely lacking." The woman brought the milk to the table barely containing a laugh,

"Oh Ho, that won't stop him from utterly imploring you to read some the popular publications. I swear to the heavens above, his obsessions know no bounds. I keep trying to tell him I wish to focus on poetry and what does he do?" she paused dramatically swinging her arms a bit for effect, " He regales me with his newest devotion. And I am always obliged to listen as a daughter would," She gave herself a moment's silence as she poured the tea and John ladled soup into the bowls. His expressions grew more gay by her seeming exasperation. She huffed into her seat her skirts plumping up around her with the motion as she continued, " Now it's this series in the 'Strand Magazine' called 'Sherlock Holmes.' Apparently it has become very popular as of late." And the woman let herself lapse into silence as she took a spoonful of soup and blew on it, feeling the pangs of hunger start to gnaw at her once more.

"Have you read it yourself?" The man asked before following her direction looking vaguely curious.

"Not yet. Though Ernest is very insistent and keeps offering to lend me his copies of the publications," Ophelia rattled off so she could eat the now cooled spoonful. She tried to hold back her groan of pleasure for the sake of grace but John seemed to be watching with enough intent to hide nothing. She watched how he sat back so...unfluttered-like,elegantly taking sips while she felt like a child. she huffed a bit in mock jealousy that perhaps had some truth to it. She often felt ever since she had left her home, all the childhood training of her youth, finally unrestrained and in moments of comfort was melting away as the snow outside did. And when it was gone though the reality may not be as pristine it was the truth of things. Part of her reveled in showing this silliness especially to John. Perhaps he might be able to follow her in this way. She was already seeing some cracks in the ice of the exterior he had built over the long winter but she would dare to one day break it and dive into the water beneath.

As she thought and ate watching her friend he at first shifted under her gaze but eventually seemed to match her delving into his own thoughts as well. Finally he asked,

"Do you know what type of story, this Sherlock holmes is?" That was enough to snap the woman back to the moment and she noticed she had already eaten half her bowl and hadn't touched the tea. She took her two lumps of sugar and put them in her cup before answering,

"It is all mysteries lead by the namesake who is a detective. That is all I dare to remember through Ernest's adorations of it," She paused looking over at John's nearly empty cup, "Would you like to try milk this time? You might find it more to your liking." John's face scrunched up a bit still slightly overwhelmed by the sugar experience earlier, no doubt but took a deep breath before answering.

"I shall, and I pray I shall like it or else I will ever be resigned to my more accustomed taste as plain as it may be." He spoke delicately and the woman felt a surge of adoration in his willingness.

"It would truly be a travesty if you do not for you are hardly a plain gentleman," she said as she poured some milk into his cup, just a tidbit, and stirred it, " Do you have interest in mysteries? I myself am not particularly fond of them I suppose. Call me a typical woman but the romances have always captured something within me." She looked up to see the man's head tilted in amused confusion.

"I would never have thought to hear gentleman pass any human's lips in reference to my being. Yet to even be a plain gentleman becometh the greatest honor indeed, my lady," he said with a moment of dramatic flair after recovering himself and showing a much happier demeanor. He took a few more moments to think of her question as he sipped the tea. She was much relieved to see his face not twisting into a grimace, though minorly perplexed at first. By the second sip, his expression grew contented he nodded to her of the shown success.

"Truly a gentleman of good taste then. You have the honor of kings by surpassing your previous state I would think now. Shall I wreath your head in leaves of tea to show such a mighty distinction for surely it is better then then a wreath of olive leaves," Ophelia said in an offering tone of a subservient dramatis persona even bowing her head slightly. The man lifted a hand and made a kingly dismissal, even lifting himself straighter in the chair,

"There shall be no such need .The title is worthy enough." And with that he left the play behind,

"I also suppose I might have interest in mysteries. There have been hints of them in works I read before. And it might be a boon in the meeting of your Mr.Jenkins to keep interest in such things. I’m afraid I have forgotten if you told me once before, but which of the romances do you enjoy?"

" I very much enjoy such things as 'Pride and Prejudice', 'Wuthering Heights', and 'Phantom of the Opera.' I have the volumes if you have not read them and have interest though I shall not chide you ."

"If you would oblige me, since you do now have a majority of my collection to read, it would be a fair trade as it were. I would be glad to read them." The woman clapped her hands together in delight.

"Indeed I shall happily oblige you. You cannot know...well perhaps you can understand the joy in sharing such interests. Besides Ernest, I know it is meant not to be a passion of my sex and so few men would indulge me so. Yet, for my part such men who would spurn such interests are no gentlemen but are in want of mindless servants to their will." The woman rambled in a pant of distaste just thinking about such people once more. She kicked herself for ruining the mood, especially for herself but it was naught but a truth. She looked up making sure John met her eye,

"So, even for that sake, no matter what storms you claim have reigned in your soul, you have always been the upstanding Mr. Clare to me, high above other petty animals parading as men." She watched as the man's eyes grew dark with hateful memory,

"I pray you never see me as anything else, thus I shall always be the most gentle with you, my dear," he said resolutely and taking a loving turn in his ending promise. His words seared her with need to respond.

"And I to you." For a moment longer they held each other's gaze as Ophelia thought about how he had called her 'my dear' which melted all the anger in her bosom. He seemed at peace with his own words and went back to eating, regaining his shyness in a second. She followed his lead for a bit till they finished and the man let himself break the silence this time,

“ I do admit to having envy for Aron`s talent in cooking. I must say I think I would gladly trade a portion of my poetic knowledge for the ability to eat so well each day.” Lia quickly retaliated,

“ And I would have you trade none of it and simply have him instruct you. You should never need trade any part of yourself away for another,” she said in a serious note before brightening up, “ but I promise he would delight in having an apprentice who not not ruin his work.” 

“You speak so unkindly of yourself, yet you ask me to not speak such things,” the man chided her his golden eyes narrowing slightly. But it hardly fazed the woman who merely waved him off, 

“I only speak facts, that I promise. For many years now I have worked to improve my ability and now under my brother’s tutorage I can at least cut and mix ingredients with...minor injury but as soon as it involves heat of any kind…” she paused sighing dramatically in play, standing up, "and I have mortified my brother with my failures to be sure; therefore I find it merciful to spare him most of the time." As she spoke she placed her fingers over her temple with a sigh. Even with the dramatics put in, it was the truth. She lowered her hand and placed it on the table, looking at her friend with a sighing grin.

"I'm sure in time you will fare better, as anyone can do with enough practice. If not, I can only promise to be a most avid learner. Though I have little to offer Aron in return," the man responded comfortingly seeing through her words all too easily. Ophelia felt herself in all seriousness both excited and amused at the thought of watching her brother teach John and more so for the better excuses for him to come live with them.

"We surely will ask Aron when he returns home then. You can give him your compliments then. If I were to tell him, he would think I was merely teasing him." The woman moved herself a bit further away from the table and leaned against the window frame acting as if in shock, and coughed a bit before dropping her voice and taking her conception of a masculine stance,

"Dearest Sister, it pains me that you would make such extravagant claims. It was hardly my best work!" and Ophelia finished by staggering over back into the chair trying her hardest not to crack a smile while John held back laughter, but just barely it seemed. Finally Lia let out a burst of laughter at her own foolish impression and thinking of the hilarious face her brother would make seeing such a thing. She certainly would have to show Aron later on, no doubt with him giving an equally wicked impression of her with John around.

She brought herself back to look at John who was smiling appraisingly all of the sudden at her, only having let out the smallest of laughs.

"Perhaps you missed your true calling as an actress," he spoke with laughter chocking his words as he took the stance of a critic. Lia leaned back in her chair amused, thinking herself no better than the mechanicals of 'Midsummer Night's Dream.'

“Oh, hardly. I may no more boast then Nick Bottom for acting ability,except in both our abilities to play the ass. Yet even there, he would surpass by actually becoming one. I doubt I have a Puck to transform me so,"

"Yet, I would see you try anyway. Would you happen to remember any of his lines?"

"Indeed. It is my second favorite of the comedies after all, after 'Much Ado about nothing'," The woman said giving herself a moment to recall her favored portions of the play. She had recently seen it with the Jenkins but a bit longer since she had read it. Thankfully some things managed to stick in her mind and she stood once more.

"So from where Peter Quince announces Bottom to be Pyramus then," she announced before changing her stance; a hand on her hip as she leaned slightly and cocked her head to the side whilst giving herself a boastful tone,

"That will ask some tears in the true performing of it. If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes," she paused raising a hand towards the ceiling with curved fingers, her voice growing louder, " I will move storms. " she changed her position to loosely hugging herself with both her arms, " I will condole in some measure." She relaxed once more into a lazy lean and lightly pounded her chest with her fist. “To the rest-yet my chief humor is for a tyrant. I could play Erecles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in,” The woman then made a gruesome face pounding her fist on the table next. “To make all split!” 

She paused for a moment, amused she had even remembered this much and prepared herself for the last part, putting a foot up on the chair, using a booming voice, 

“The raging rocks, and shivering rocks,  
Shall break the locks, of prison gates;  
And Phibbus`s car, shall shine from far,  
And make and mar, the Foolish Fates.” 

And ending the woman gingerly stepped down from the chair, John stood clapping loudly for her performance. She bowed deeply and then looked up to see him take an elegant stance, one arm tucked against the middle of his back as he used his other hand to guide his words,

“Which when I saw rehears’d, I must confess made mine eyes water; but more merry tears the passion of loud laughter never shed,” he said indeed holding back laughter as he took Philostrate’s part with ease. That was from...near the end of the play when the before the mechanicals had played ‘Pyramus and Thisbe’. Lia wondered what was it Quince had said. In a moment she drug it up from memory and gave another bow but deep and overly polite. She changed her voice to one that trembled as if before royalty as she spoke Quince’s lines,

“If we offend, it is with our good will, to show our simple skill.That’s the true beginning of the end.” The man politely clapped again breaking character. As himself he spoke now,

“I would have you try to play all the characters in turn for the mechanical’s play one day. For it surely would make a true comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe then.” The woman already felt exhausted by doing such small parts in the moment and felt dizzy just thinking of all the lines she would have to remember. She rebutted him,

“It would be a poor production for me alone. At least I could play pyramus and you my Thisbe since I would not have the energy to race around a wall. And then you may speak as small as you will.” She pulled the last line from Quince feeling accomplished. But John responded back promptly,

“Nay, faith; let not me play a woman; I have a beard coming,`” he said as Francis Flute even making the motion of stroking an imaginary beard. They both laughed and the woman gave in, knowing she had been bested in wits. But yet again, John had indeed lived in a theatre so he had the clear advantage here.

“Your skills in memorization, I shall openly envy till the end of time. I could never pull lines from a work with as much ease as you even if it were a favorite of mine,” she complimented him with false begrudgement looking back to her unfinished food. She took pains to quickly finish it before it became too cold, watching her friend blushing in silence as he mirrored her not knowing what to say once more. If anything he seemed to enjoy the moment of silence after their exertions. 

The woman didn't mind either letting herself fall back into thought. She wondered what plays John might have seen in his time in the Grand Guignol beyond “The transformed beast”. She still remembered seeing the poster for it back in the cholera Ward and it had sparked many interesting conversations every now and then. John always seemed a natural talent in acting perhaps because he was always playing some part. It seemed such a shame he would never get to showcase that talent. Yet again, perhaps she wanted to keep it just among them...maybe Aron being able to watch. She often thought about when she had gone to the theater with Ernest and whether not her friend had been there, so close yet not. When she looked up she noted how the man seemed to have distracted himself into melancholy and she spoke to put a stop to it, 

“ After we’ve cleaned up I'll take your measurements and perhaps you can give me your best 'Oberon’ for you would do his lines much justice. Perhaps I could even try out a few of Titania’s lines from the first act for a turn.” John, having finished eating already and seeing that Lia was now done, thoughtfully picked up what dishes he could and brought them to the wash basin. Once he got there he spoke, his voice shy and still distracted sounding,

“I think you would play a better puck with what I have learned this day,” Lia followed him with the rest of the dishes and soon was next to him as he continued, “ Though I would be too jealous of an Oberon to merely touch your eyes with Cupid`s love flower and have you fall for another.” The woman put the dishes in the basin and tried to look at her friend`s face for she couldn't tell how much in jest he spoke. His long locks made it hard to see and his tone remained muddy. He started washing this time and the woman stayed grabbing a nearby towel, prepared to dry. 

“I suppose you are right about me being Titania, for I hardly think I could play any part with grace. Nor would I wish to fall for an ass anyway,” Ophelia spoke brightly as if to shine light on her friends demeanor. It seemed to work minorly as he glanced over to her with a hint of happiness returned.

“Perhaps you have... Yet I could not play Bottom with as much gusto as you to be sure. Perhaps I should play Titania then and you my transformed Bottom for it would, at the least, amuse your brother,” he said handing off the plates to Lia now. The woman laughed at the thought of it,

“He would faint of laughter, which would be a sight to see for sure.”

“Perhaps then I could write an ode to the comedies,” the man mused to himself. The woman continued her work saying,

“Oh please do! Maybe we could even each write on the theme and have Earnest judge which is better.” Lia spoke with enthusiasm but the man quickly retorted,

“I don’t think such creative works are best done in sport.” But the woman would not be dissuaded. She put the plate she was working on down and nudged her love`s arm with her own.

“That's only because you know I would win, eh?” John stopped as well looking down at her with an elegantly raised eyebrow and slowly smiled,

“Of course you would. It would be no contest.” Feeling a deep blush take over, completely disarmed by his statement Lia was only able to stutter out with a feeble laugh,

“I-I suppose I would…” And seeming pleased with himself John started on the pots. Unable to recover enough to speak the woman let silence reign until they finished with the dishes while the man looked over with a silent laugh every once in awhile.


End file.
